It's All Relative
by That Kid With the Long Coat
Summary: Basically a timey wimey fic. Post-Reichenbach, I guess. As with the last one, I don't even know. Enjoy, or whatever. Also, it doesn't follow normal post-Reichenbach plots. Rated T because (a) I'm paranoid, and (b) I drop a couple f-bombs. Read if convenient. If inconvenient, come back when it is. Angst because, IDEK. If you have better genres, tell me please.


_**Author's Note:** I have no idea what this even is. I guess a Reichenbach fic? Basically, I guess I wanted to get away from general post-Reichenbach plots... (Sherlock comes back, John hits him, they fuck, etc). But whatevs. Written while high on caffeine (but not coffee, oh no, it's Lent, I gave that miracle drink up- I AM SUCH A DUMBASS WHY EVEN-). Or lack of sleep. I don't even know. Any errors are my own (maybe I _should_ get a beta =_=)_

_*sigh* Anyways, enjoy this mess while I try and finish the Mystrade fic I said I'd have posted _last week_._

* * *

Time. It's amazing, is it not? How relative it is? How, depending on where you are, an hour can seem like a minute, or sometimes, maybe even a year. Days seem like months, and, well, years like millennia.

But what about when those years are spent in an empty flat?

John had stopped wearing a watch. He left his mobile in his pocket. He stopped looking at clocks, he stopped paying attention to the world passing him by. He could be showering for what felt like hours in ten minutes. He could spend what seemed like seconds, when it was hours, several in fact, staring at nothing.

There was just nothing to keep him grounded anymore.

So John came to ignore the world going on like nothing had happened. He stayed amongst the shattered remains of his life, never really bothering to clean it up and follow along like he knew he should. Not really. He made a few attempts at first, seeing his therapist, moving in with Harry for a bit (neither turned out very well). Eventually, he gave up.

And so the world went on and on, stretching out before him with no end in sight. The one flaw of time. An invention of man, men are the only ones who have to be afraid that they're running out of it. Or the, well, the_ endlessness_ of it, ticking casually past forever. But, after an eternity, an end came.

_Three fucking years later_.

It felt like three _hundred_.

* * *

Sherlock had the audacity to show up at the flat. Mrs Hudson wasn't home. But John was. John was always home.

The door opened. John was at the window, staring out, loathing the bustle below. He didn't bother turning around.

_"John."_

He heard it. But he ignored it.

_"John?"_

Oh yes, he ignored that too.

Of course he was shocked, to say the least, that he was even hearing that voice again. But really, it was beyond him to care. Well, it's not that he didn't care, really. Actually, he was overcome with rage. It took everything in him not to turn around and punch that bastard in his_ fucking face_ for even daring to show up.

_"John…"_

He said it one more time as John turned away from the window and brushed past him coolly to climb the stairs. John hadn't been up there in ages. He had taken to sleeping in Sherlock's room for the past year or so. He couldn't remember. Time, yeah? Terrible bitch.

He fumed up there for what must have been hours. Sherlock counted the seconds downstairs, like he had been for three years. As it turned out, John was up there for a total of twenty-six hours.

And fifty-three minutes.

_And thirteen seconds._

He walked down calmly enough. Sherlock cautiously glanced away from the clock on the wall, trying to gauge the mental state of his friend.

John didn't pay any attention to him. He went straight for the kitchen and put the kettle on. He made himself a sandwich. He sat down and drank his_ fucking tea_. Sherlock sat in silence, not sure how to start.

John opened his mouth once, and Sherlock waited in anticipation. It turned out to be a yawn. Shortly afterwards, John left. Sherlock stayed in his seat, not daring to move. And so became the routine.

* * *

Sherlock counted. He counted every second, every tick. He was keeping track of everything. When John woke up, when he made his breakfast, when he went to work (yes, now John found it within himself to_ actually_ keep a job), when he came home and made dinner, how long he watched telly, when he went to bed.

_Everything._

Time was his saving grace. An end had to come sometime. The only question was when.

* * *

It was over three months that John held out. It seemed like a few days to him. To Sherlock, it was _almost_ worse than the three years he was gone. Sure, being gone completely was the worst thing, being away from John for so long, just-_ everything about it_.

But_ actually_ coming home. Seeing John _every _day, being so close to him, but being ignored. Hell. Absolute hell. He had expected John to be angry. But he had expected a black eye and a broken nose. Maybe a dislocated jaw, another cut over his cheekbone. Loose teeth. A concussion perhaps. But not_ this_.

If Sherlock learned anything, it was that John was patient. But it wasn't a saint-like patience he possessed. It was meticulous. It was cold. It was determined and unforgiving.

After three months, John decided to show some mercy. _Some_. He left an extra tea cup by the kettle, knowing Sherlock was watching his every move from across the room.

Sherlock took it as a small mercy. They had a long way to go.

* * *

_This is what happens when I procrastinate because I'm having a crisis. A small part of that is hating everything I write. And I'm not looking for reassurance that my writing is great. I'm just putting it out there. I think it's terrible as of late._

_But before I write a whole novel about my life, laters. I hope to see you later. At some point. Somewhere._


End file.
